


The Wind in the Trees

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Morrigan - Freeform, dragon - Freeform, dragonlord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enraged by her reversal of fortune at Blackheath and the loss of Tintagel, Morgana plots a terrible revenge against Merlin. But still weak and recovering from his ordeal, her plans may destroy Merlin altogether.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wind in the Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 'Merlin' and its characters are not mine. No money is being made from this.

Morgana feigned sleep when the door opened and quiet footsteps approached the bed. A familiar scent hung in the air- musky and male, with traces of leather, sweat, and horse. She sighed and reconciled herself to putting up with him. Just now, she wanted to be alone but Accolon did have a way of making it worth her while.

"Morgana?" he whispered, his weight settling onto the bed next to her. She opened her eyes, drinking in the depths of his brown eyes, finally giving him the faintest of smiles when his hand closed over hers. "Are you all right?"

"No," she sulked. "I've lost everything. Pynell sits in my home, and my men are dead or scattered. Arthur still sits upon my throne, and Merlin still lives. The Sarrum- that fool- I handed him Blackheath on a silver platter, gave him one of Arthur's weak points when I captured Merlin and he- he wasted it all." She slipped off the bed and stalked toward the window. "They could have kept him alive for weeks, taking him apart piece by piece and letting Arthur stew in his own guilt but they just had to have a show. They could have just cut off Merlin's head and mounted it on a spike. It would have had the same effect on Arthur. But the Sarrum couldn't resist making a spectacle."

"And he died for it. Along with many of his men," Accolon said, rising to join her by the window, his hands brushing along her hips to rest at her waist. Though sweet, the kisses he laid upon her neck were not enough to mollify her.

"He deserved it. And much more than that." She thought of pulling away from him, to give into the impulse to stalk away angrily, but . . . He was so warm, and his arms so inviting. Accolon may not have been the brightest man to catch her eye but he was strong and generous, in an earthy sort of way. She melted against him. They stood quietly for a while, watching rain spatter against the window. Uriens's castle in Rheged had not been her first choice for a refuge, but it had been expedient.

The fire popped in the hearth, strangely reminding her of Blackheath and that dark cell where they had put Merlin. She had felt such triumph then, to see him chained and his magic bound by the power of the _Deiradh Chroí_. Finally, she had the chance to confront him about all the things he had done to her, his sins, his crimes against their kind. She could have . . .

She shouldn't have touched him. She shouldn't have given in to the impulse to touch that face again, to admit that once upon a time they might have loved each other. Might have been something far more than mere friends. He admitted the same.

He said he could have loved her, once. Then he refused her, the softness turning to pity in his eyes. Both points wounded her pride more than she cared to admit. Only the thinnest of lines separate love and hate, and she had set such a fire to that line, turning what had been a dull, pulsing anger into a roiling hatred. How quickly things changed. In one moment, she had been ready to take him away from there, the next, she wanted him to die. Morgana had had no regrets when she turned him over to the Sarrum's torturers. She only wished now that the Amatans had been more patient.

Accolon shifted, bringing his hands up to her shoulders and languidly trailing his fingertips down her arms, lightly brushing over the embroidery of her sleeves and catching on Morgause's healing bracelet before twining his hands with hers. "Morgana?" he whispered.

"Hmmm?" She was barely paying attention to him. Morgause . . . What would her sister have counseled in this matter? Vengeance, certainly. No one knew how to play that game better than Morgause had. Never direct, never from the direction the quarry suspected, and always to make him hurt the most. "I still have his blood on that cloth. I could hurt him, and keep hurting him until I killed him."

But death wasn't the worst fate. Sometimes, life itself could be the worst punishment.

"What are you thinking about?"

"The future," she replied. Morgana opened her eyes, lithely twisting in his grasp, her pale eyes heavy-lidded. Cat-like. "Do you love me, Accolon?"

He smiled and tucked a lock of her night-dark hair behind her ears. "More than anything."

"And if I asked you to kill someone, would you do it?" She pressed against him, her fingers brushing gentle lines on his linen shirt.

"Just give me the name, My Lady." He wrapped his arms around her waist, his breath quickening.

"In good time." She pulled at the laces of his shirt. "Patience is a virtue."

He laughed. "I'm not a virtuous man."

"So much the better," she whispered, winding her fingers into his hair and pulling his head down just enough to kiss him, a long, languorous embrace filled with promises of more to come. She broke away, smiling at his frustrated groan. "It's just one little name. It won't even be a challenge for you. A quick ride there and back again. Hardly even worth mentioning."

"Morgana . . . " he said, his eyes dark as he cupped her face with his hands, "What is it you want?"

"Ashes," she said, "I want ashes."

* * *

His own room had become like a foreign land. He had never noticed how strangely sound echoed in the little chamber- the faint squeak when the wind rattled the shutters, or how his door barely quieted voices on the other side or the faint snapping of the fire in the hearth. The wooden planks under his feet were the most familiar parts of the room, though even they warped and shifted in ways he had never noticed before. But they were solid under his feet, and he tried to borrow their strength as he levered himself upright despite his shaking knees and protesting ankles.

Merlin had insisted on being allowed to return to his own room the day before. He had said he wanted to be away from the fire and the candles- the scent of smoke made him dream of Blackheath. It was the truth. Just not all of it. Flimsy as it was, the door provided one more barrier between him and the rest of the world, affording him an ounce of privacy and a faint respite from the indignities of poor health.

It was hard to breathe, sometimes, under the weight of their endless attention. Arthur, Guinevere, Gaius, and the others- even Blaise, now and then- were constantly there, asking if he wanted this thing or that. If he was feeling better. If he was feeling worse. And always, a constant cheer that rang false to his ears, as though acting like springtime songbirds would make the pain go away. He could escape into sleep for a time- and he did that often- but the dreams always came back, waking him with a choking terror that left him weeping helplessly.

He felt their guilt, felt it tangle itself up into pity until he wanted nothing more than for them to go away and leave him be. He didn't know which he hated more, though- the weight of their pity mixed with single-minded attention, or the loneliness that sucked the air out of the room on the rare occasions they were gone. Most of all, he hated his own weakness and the pain and sickness that kept him bed-ridden, despite nearly a week's passage since he had woken up.

Merlin held his breath as he straightened, his good hand stretched out for balance, then took a halting step forward. His head spun, then cleared enough for him to shuffle forward, concentrating on each movement until his hand brushed against the back of his chair. He grasped it weakly, and paused to let the dizziness wear off.

Arthur and Gwaine had been at his side when he took his first steps since coming home. They'd helped him move from Gaius's room to his own, a journey that left him shaking and sweating until he thought they were going to pick him up and take him back to where he started. They hadn't. Just bundled him up in his cold room, set up a coal-filled brazier to keep him warm, and sat quietly by until he dozed off. How sad to say that being helped to bed and then falling asleep was the high point of the past week.

 _"I once ran from Camelot to within a mile of Broceliande in an afternoon._ " Now he was glad to make it the few paces from his bed to the table. His fingers scrabbled against the tabletop, brushing against the leather cover of the book he had forgotten was there. He searched his memory, trying to remember what he had been reading before they left for Blackheath, but couldn't come up with the title. _"Does it even matter now?"_ Tears pricked at his eyes. Since he had become less of a servant and more of whatever it was he had been, reading had become a means of escape whenever the pressures of the world grew too heavy.

No longer. Since waking up, he had seen no light, nor any sign that things would change.

Reading was lost to him. And his own book, too. Wherever it was now, he would never finish it. Trying to explain the road to Samarkand or the Valley of the Kings to an ordinary scribe sounded like an exercise in maddening futility. Best to forget it and move on to whatever menial tasks he could do.

He dragged his fingers upwards along the wall until he found the window and spread his hand out as wide as he could. It wasn't far, but it trembled with the exertion. The damage to his wrists had been so extensive that Gaius wasn't sure if he would re-gain the full use of his hands. He could open and close them with effort, but lifting anything heavier than a cup of water was beyond him. At least he could feed himself. Though blind and half-crippled, he wasn't completely helpless.

A layer of frost covered the inside of the window, telling him that it was cold outside and nothing more. Not even if it was night or day. He thought about stretching out with his magic, then thought better of it. The last time he had tried that, the effort had been so exhausting he had slept most of a day. He still felt the river of power flowing through him, but he lacked the strength to do anything with it, like standing in the midst of a river and calling on it to change its course. It didn't want to answer him. Gaius had told him to be patient.

He was tired of being patient.

The frost melted under his hand, dripping down his fingers and soaking into the bandages around his wrist. It was cold, but he hardly cared. His hand dropped back to his side. Tears coursed down his face and he let them go. Before Blackheath, he had been on the brink of something extraordinary. Servant, healer, scholar, warlock. His world had widened far more than he had ever thought possible, and with Arthur having accepted his magic, he had been limited only by the starry skies above him.

But now, thanks to a spiteful witch and a tyrant king, all that was lost. Scarred, blinded, half-crippled . . . There were times- few, but they were there- when he wished Gaius would make a mistake, give him too much of a sleeping draught so he could just sleep. . . Sleep, and never awaken.

"Good morning, Gaius!" Guinevere's cheerful voice rang through the two rooms. True happiness, not the guilt-inflected merriment he heard in the knights' voices. Gaius's answer made her laugh.

The sound of it grated on his nerves, but soothed them at the same time, a dichotomy that only made him feel worse. He dried his eyes. She would knock on his door next, and keep knocking until he let her come in.

"Merlin?" There it was.

He sighed. "Come in."

The door creaked open, then closed again. "Merlin!" she hissed. "What are you doing? Gaius would have your hide if he saw you were up without anyone here."

"You're here."

"Well, I am now," she said, her tone exasperated. Then she chuckled. "Tired of just lying around, then?" She shifted something in her arms and her footsteps approached. Her fingers brushed his arm, but didn't latch on. He was grateful for that. "I brought some tea and an apple pastry. Do you want anything else?"

"Is it from the kitchens?" He asked, his gloominess lightening at the scent of spiced apples.

"No," there was a genuine smile in her voice, "From Agnes's shop down the way. You don't really think I'd inflict castle pastries on you?" She ushered him back to bed before he realized it, easing him back against the pillows and straightening the tangled blankets with a skill that spoke of her years of service, and a grace that made him feel like less of a burden. It was something the others could never manage.

"Here." A soft thunk on the bedside table told him where the cup of tea was, and a tray- presumably with the pastry- was settled on his lap before he could say anything. "Eat your food before it gets cold, and then I need to see about your wrists."

"Carrot and stick?" he said wryly. He took the spoon between clumsy fingers and fumbled his way through the pastry. It was easier to manage than the soups Gaius foisted on him, where he spilled half of it on himself and felt like a half-witted child. The tea was hot and dosed with honey. It soothed his throat and calmed the constant itching in his chest. Guinevere bustled about while he ate, tidying up after the others, her skirts rustling as she moved.

He was half asleep when she settled onto the bed next to him.

"Merlin? Are you awake?"

"hmm . . . " He opened his eyes. "Yes, I suppose. Time to torment me, then?" This was routine by now. They cleaned and re-bandaged his wrists daily, sometimes twice, applying salves and balms to stop infections and keep the scarring skin supple as it healed. He didn't need to hear her sharp intake of breath when she unwound the bandages and revealed the ruins of his arms to know how bad it was. He felt it every day. Every moment.

"I'll be as quick as I can," she said, undoing the sling from behind his neck and stretching his broken arm out, her fingers soft as she straightened his unbroken fingers and bathed the length of his arm with warm, sweetly scented water. "Your hands are still so cold . . ."

"Gaius says the blood flow isn't as strong as it used to be. Because of the scarring." Merlin closed his eyes and pressed back against the pillows. His left hand twitched in the blanket whenever she pressed a sensitive spot.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I'll try to be more careful."

"It's not your fault," he said. He clenched his jaw and turned his head away from her, fighting back tears. Everyone kept apologizing to him, no matter the reason.

"I can stop for now if it's too much, see if Gaius has something for the pain."

"It's not that, it's . . . " He took a deep breath and swiped at his tears. "Everyone's tip-toeing around, apologizing for everything. It's- I'm just-" he sighed, "I'm just so tired of it all. I hear so much . . . pity in their voices."

She gently squeezed his good fingers. "It's not pity, Merlin, it's guilt."

"Sounds like pity."

"It's guilt, Merlin. They feel guilty about what happened. Arthur and Leon, and especially Gwaine. Terribly guilty, and they don't know what to do about it. They're men of action. Give them an enemy to swing a sword at, and they know just what to do. But make them face some matter of the heart, and they lose their bearings." She spread the salve down his arm, her fingers warm as she rubbed it in. It smelled of honey. "They're lost. They don't know what to do."

"They're not the only ones. What am I supposed to do now? I knew- before all this- what I was meant to do. And now? What does a blind man do? Or a cripple? Or . . . " He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, pursing his lips against the despair threatening to break through.

He shrugged off the comforting hand she laid on his shoulder. "Just- I'm just tired. Tired of everything," he said, defeated.

"I know," Guinevere whispered, "Just give yourself some time. Everything is going to be all right."

Too worn out to argue, he nodded and let her get on with her work. But deep down, he was tired of hearing that, too.

* * *

"He's not a child. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Gwaine, I'm well aware of that." Arthur rolled his eyes and kept walking up the street. At his heels trotted a pale gray, wolfish dog. Its ears perked up, listening for every noise, nose sniffing at all the new scents in the cold air as they headed from the kennels back to the castle.

"And yet you've only heard of this being done with blind children. How is that supposed to help Merlin?"

"If you have any better ideas, Gwaine, I'd love to hear them. As it stands, this is what I have to offer. I discussed with Gaius last night, and he agreed. Merlin will be up and about in the next week or so and I'd rather not have him break his neck because he fell down some stairs. And Gaius thinks it might help keep the nightmares at bay."

Gwaine opened his mouth to respond, but said nothing. Memories of his ordeal still plagued the sorcerer's sleep, and without his sight waking failed to assure him it was only a dream. As he regained his strength, they came less often, but Merlin was less willing to say what he'd seen. Too, as the days went by, Merlin seemed unwilling even to talk, falling into melancholy silences and answering questions with a single word. His body might be getting stronger, but Merlin himself was fading away.

"Do you ever have the feeling that he's just putting up with us because he doesn't have another choice?" Gwaine asked quietly, his question too close to Arthur's train of thought for comfort.

"Yes." He stepped into the snow covered courtyard, nodding to the servants and others who paused to bow at his approach, waving them off to their errands before they could ask if he needed anything. _"I need things to be as they were, not the mess they are now."_

"Seems like Guinevere's the only one who can get through to him at all these days. I guess it's because she's made an art out of being a servant. Knows exactly what people need and when to get out of the way. Always seems to know what to say, too," Gwaine went on, either ignoring Arthur's increasing irritation, or failing to notice it. "Unlike you."

"Or you, for that matter."

Gwaine scowled. "You're the one who told me to stay here. If you'd wanted pretty speech, you shouldn't have sent Lancelot off to Rheged. You do remember that Pynell tried to murder him with a pack of hunting dogs last summer, don't you?"

"Yes, Gwaine, I remember that," Arthur gritted his teeth, "But Cabal never would hunt, and Merlin always liked him the best of all the hounds." Whenever Arthur took the dog out, he ended up finding him rolling in some patch of smelly grass or chasing frogs at the riverside. Not unlike a certain servant-turned-friend Arthur knew. He had heard of people training dogs to guide blind children around- stories from here and there. He'd never seen it himself, but it was worth it to try.

Anything to give Merlin some feeling of independence and bring him out of the deepening melancholy he was failing to hide.

"What if this doesn't work?"

"Then we'll have some dog hair on the furniture and we can say we tried. Honestly, Gwaine, if I hear one more complaint out of you, you're going to spend the rest of the day in the stocks." He led them back inside, shedding his cloak as he headed down the hallway leading to Gaius's chambers. "Unless you have a better idea? Or any ideas at all?"

"Short of disappearing in the wind like Morgana, flying off to Rheged, and bringing his mother back in the blink of an eye?" Gwaine shrugged. "I guess I don't. Just tired of seeing him like this, is all. Seems like he's better one day and worse the next, and there's nothing we can do but sit around and fret like old women."

"Well, you must enjoy acting like an old woman, as often as you go on. There are times I'd like to toss you out the window just to hear the end of your fretting." Arthur took the stairs two at a time with Cabal on his heels, just outpacing Gwaine and the deadly glare Arthur felt on the back of his head. He knocked on Gaius's door and waited a moment before letting himself in.

The chamber was peaceful as ever, and apparently empty until the physician poked his head over the railing above them. "Sire." He nodded a bow and made his careful way down the stairs, a faint smile appearing on his face when he noticed the dog at Arthur's side. "And this is Cabal." He held a hand out to Cabal, who sniffed it delicately and consented to the ear-scratching that followed.

"How is he this morning? Any better?" Arthur's gaze landed on the doorway to Merlin's room. It was closed, as usual. He couldn't blame the sorcerer for craving the familiar and wanting any kind of barrier between himself and the rest of the world. He just wished it didn't feel like it was one more step toward Merlin retreating within himself completely. Like they were losing him all over again.

Gaius followed Arthur's gaze, his own expression turning sad. "I wish I knew. His body is healing, but . . ." he trailed off, sighing.

"But what?"

"Merlin is in a dark place, Sire. The mind doesn't head as readily as the body. When a man has been through such an ordeal, his mind can turn. He may become angry and strike out at those around him, or turn away from society altogether and push away those who were closest to him. Still others never recover, withering until they die, despite the fact that their physical wounds have healed. And some . . . " Gaius flicked a worried glance toward Merlin's door. "Some can no longer bear the thought of living and take their own lives."

"You don't think Merlin would . . ." Arthur couldn't finish the sentence. He feared the possibility, that Merlin could use his magic to take his own life and no one would be able to stop him.

Gaius shook his head. The weariness in his eyes made him look far older than his years. "I doubt it, Sire, but it's difficult to say for sure. If he's entertained such thoughts, he hasn't confided in me or Guinevere. His strength returns, but he's pulling away from us. Merlin has always had a stubbornly independent streak. It's difficult for him to ask for help, even when he needs it. And this? I don't know."

"Is there anything at all that we can do? Some . . . magical thing in the vaults, someone we could ask for help?"

"Much of what's in the vaults are weapons and other arcane tools. I remember a few healing spells from the old days, and I, uh, may have used a few of them," Gaius smirked at that, "But the truly powerful spells are beyond my limited abilities. There is one who could heal Merlin, but it would require going miles out into the forest by night, and I fear his health is still too fragile. His fever has gone but his lungs are still weak, he can hardly stand without getting dizzy, and he's certainly not strong enough to ride anywhere. Perhaps in a week or so we could try, but not now."

Arthur nodded. "Is there anything at all that we can do here? I hate . . . " Feeling so helpless, he meant to say, but couldn't. His hand dropped to Cabal's head when the dog leaned against him, as though he sensed Arthur's distress and was trying to comfort him.

"For the moment, what we can do is stay by his side, and remind him he's not alone. Remember that he doesn't want to feel this way, and that such trauma is not easy to recover from. His recovery will take a long time, and we'll all have to be patient."

"Easier said than done," Arthur said. "Is Guinevere with him?

"Yes. She's sewing, as usual. He's likely sleeping." The faint smile returned to Gaius's face. Guinevere had taken it upon herself to create a new wardrobe for the sorcerer, and she had spent most of her time at Merlin's side doing just that. Neither Arthur nor Guinevere had acknowledged just how many of the funds for the fine fabrics had come from the King's personal account.

"Thank you, Gaius. I'll try not to disturb them too much." Arthur tugged at Cabal's lead as the healer waved him on. He tapped on Merlin's door and waited for Guinevere's response before peering inside. A bright lantern lit the room for her sake. Its carefully trimmed wick kept it from creating smoke that would upset Merlin. The sorcerer lay curled up on his side in a nest of blankets, apparently asleep until he turned toward the door, his glassy eyes blinking owlishly.

"May I come in?" Arthur asked, "I brought a friend. And Gwaine, too."

Guinevere laughed at Gwaine's sputtered protest and gestured them in. Merlin winced as he pushed himself upright against the pillows. "Who's here?" he asked blearily. Cabal responded by slipping out of Arthur's grasp and hopping onto the bed, sniffing at the sorcerer before plopping down, his head resting on Merlin's lap. "Who- What-?" His eyes opened wide as he settled a shaking hand on Cabal's head, his fingers sinking into the dog's thick fur. "Why'd you bring a dog?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"I- well, I- That is . . ." Arthur stuttered. Now that it came to explain, he didn't think he could do it without being insulting.

"Seems the Princess here heard that people were using dogs to help blind children get about. Thought he'd give it a try with you and Cabal." Gwaine smirked and flipped the room's second chair around, settling into it backwards. He paused, his brow knitting at the wording when Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Not that he thinks you're a child, Merlin. W just want you to be able to get out and about, you know. When you're ready." The knight's cocksure bearing faded as he realized he hadn't stated the reasons any better than Arthur would have, and that his words could be taken as an insult.

Merlin made a vague sound and turned his head away, as though he were done with the King and the knight and was waiting for them to leave. But his hand didn't leave Cabal's head. The dog sighed, content.

Guinevere glanced from Arthur to Gwaine and back again, shaking her head at both of them. 'You're both useless,' she seemed to say. "Merlin? I'm going to the other room to see if Gaius needs help with anything. And so Arthur can explain himself a little better. Gwaine's coming with me." She speared the knight with an imperious look as she gathered her sewing into a basket and stood.

"Why do I have to go?" he asked when she circled around the bed and tugged at his sleeve.

"Because in this case, two heads aren't better than. Come on." Gwaine's protest died on his lips at Guinevere's glare. He gave Arthur a meek shrug as he closed the door behind him.

Arthur pursed his lips and settled into the chair Guinevere had vacated. "You know I don't think of you as a child. It's just that I'd heard about people who trained up dogs for blind children, and. . . I'm terrible with words. You know that." The sound Merlin made might have been a snort of derision or a weak laugh. It was hard to tell. "How are you feeling?"

Merlin sighed. His answer felt like it had been reluctantly dragged out of some old storeroom.

"Fine. Tired. Gaius gave me something for the pain. Made my head all," his good hand waved a circle as he searched for the right word, "fuzzy."

"I can tell," Arthur chuckled. "Don't do that," he said, catching Merlin's bandaged wrist when he reached up to scratch at the cut under his eye. Unlike the others on his chest and arms, this one was slow to heal. He had already reopened it twice before; part of it was still scabbed over while the rest was sealed, leaving a silvery line of new skin. "Girls like interesting scars. Maybe you'll finally get a few to look your way," Arthur said, though his attempt at levity fell flat.

"Hm. . .” Merlin tugged his arm away from Arthur’s grip. “Morgana did that. To prove a point.'

"What point?"

Merlin brushed a finger over the fading marks on his throat. "The. . .  " he couldn't bring himself to name thing Morgana had bound him with. "That she'd caught me like a mouse in a trap. That-" He drew in a ragged breath and screwed his eyes shut.

"You don't have to say anything else if you don't want to," Arthur said. Merlin nodded in reply, folding his good arm over his broken one in its sling and turning his head away. Arthur recognized a retreat when he saw one. "Do you want me to go?".

"Yes," came the quiet reply. Arthur flinched. "And no. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Stay?" he pleaded, sounding half his age. He unfolded his arm, searching for Cabal again, twining his fingers in the thick fur. He closed his eyes and fell silent. Arthur thought he had fallen asleep when the sorcerer turned his head toward the King, his summer blue eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Arthur?" his voice was small.

"What?"

Merlin licked his lips as he hunted for the right words. "The Sarrum- The night before- I-" he frowned, "It's coming out all wrong. The night before they . . . The Sarrum came to pass the sentence. He told me he'd spoken with you, that there were other prisoners from Camelot. He said he offered a ransom for them, and you accepted it. But when it came to me, he-" Merlin picked at the blanket and turned his head away, his voice so quiet Arthur could hardly hear him. "He said you refused to pay it."

Arthur hung his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "No. No, Merlin, it wasn't like that at all. He didn't tell you everything, only what he wanted you to hear, what he knew would hurt the most. It's true, he did offer a ransom- gold for the knights and the others. It was a fair price. I wouldn't have flinched if I'd had to pay thrice that to get them back again. It was only gold. What did it matter compared to their lives? I would have paid any amount of gold the Sarrum demanded to get you out of there. But when it came to you, the Sarrum didn't ask for gold. In exchange for your life, he wanted half of Camelot." Arthur closed his eyes, shaking his head at the memory. "I couldn't- He knew I couldn't exchange one life for half my kingdom- half my people. No matter how much . . . I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The ghost of a smile spread across Merlin's face. "I didn't want to believe him. I hoped he was lying, but it was so hard to tell. I'm glad . . ." he trailed off, pressing his hand to his forehead and grimacing.

"Are you all right?"

"It's just a headache. It'll pass." Merlin sank against the pillows, shivering. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped. The color bled from his face.

"Merlin?" Arthur frowned and pulled the sorcerer's hand away, brushing his own against Merlin's forehead. He expected a fever, but the skin was clammy. "Merlin? Can you hear me?" Merlin's blind eyes flashed open, focusing on empty air. Their vivid blue paled and turned lucent as though lit from within. His shoulders jerked. His head fell back, mouth wide as he gasped for air.

"Merlin?" He didn't respond. Arthur pressed two fingers against Merlin's throat, felt the too-quick beat thudding there and turned, issuing a call worthy of the battlefield, "GAIUS!"

The physician appeared moments later, eyes wide and focused on Merlin. He dropped onto the bed next to the panting sorcerer, checking pulse and temperature just as Arthur had. "What happened?"

"I don't know. We were just talking. He was fine at first, then he complained of a headache and went pale, and . . . " He glanced up at Guinevere, hanging back by the door. She held her hand over her mouth, eyes shining and afraid. Gwaine rested a hand on her shoulder, half protecting, half comforting. "Has this happened before?"

She shook her head, but Gaius answered. "No. Not to this extent. It's like he's caught in a nightmare, but wide awake. Merlin? Can you hear me? He's gone so cold." He rested his gnarled fingers along Merlin's cheek. His stuttering breaths took on a high, panicked pitch. The strange almost-light in his eyes was like failing sunlight through stained glass. His shivering turned to shaking. Unintelligible words formed on his lips.

Cabal edged toward the foot of the bed. His whining blended with the sound of Merlin's troubled breathing until it lowered, turning to a growl before he let out a single bark that rang through the room like a warning bell. Merlin cried out, drawing in a deep breath before collapsing against the pillows and curling up on his side, coughing. He gasped again and his shoulders heaved.

Gaius pulled him upright, shoving a bowl into place as Merlin retched, bringing up what little he'd eaten that day. "S-sorry," he whispered when he was done. He sagged against Gaius.

"Oh, I've dealt with worse in my time." Gaius set the bowl aside, a half-smile on his face as he wrapped one arm around Merlin and checked his pulse and for fever with his free hand. "What did you see?" he asked gently.

"I saw- " Merlin swallowed and took a steadying breath. "I saw men with torches. And fire. Fire all around us and no way out. There was wind. Darkness, and the wind in the trees." He ran out of words then, his eyelids drooping.

"Was it Blackheath?" Gaius asked. He gestured for Arthur to pour him a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand.

"Blackheath? No," Merlin breathed, "Somewhere else." He managed to drink half the cup before his strength gave out. Gaius laid him back against the pillows, checking to see that splints and bandages were in place before smoothing the blankets over the sleeping sorcerer. Cabal curled up against him, resting his head on Merlin's hip and closing his eyes for a nap of his own. Gaius smiled and scratched the dog's ears.

"Gaius, what was that?"

"I believe Merlin had a vision. A powerful one." He fidgeted with the blanket's edge, looking as helpless as Arthur felt. "I'm not sure what it meant. But that phrase, 'the wind in the trees'- it's something he has been seeing- or hearing- in his dreams for months now, and neither one of us has been able to fathom its meaning."

"For months, you say?" Arthur leaned forward, "If he's been having visions like this for that long, why haven't we noticed anything?"

"It's been nothing like this, Sire. Dreams, a general sense of foreboding now and then, but nothing like this. To affect him like this, while he was awake," Gaius shook his head, "It would have to be a very powerful sending."

"He said 'fire all around us'. What, was he seeing it through someone's eyes?" Guinevere asked.

"You don't think he was seeing through Lancelot's eyes, do you? If some of Rheged's men found Lancelot and the others, would Merlin sense that?" Gwaine knelt by Gaius, serious for once. His eyes were fixed on Merlin.

"I suppose it's possible," Gaius mused, "But whatever its origin, we'll have to wait to see what the future brings. If he were stronger, I might ask him more about it. In his current condition, though, I think it's best we leave it be. If he wants to talk about it, that's fine. But I don't want him to worked up about it. It wouldn't take much to undo the progress he's made in his recovery. Do you all understand?" The physician pinned each of them- the King included- with a piercing gaze. They all nodded. "Good. In the meantime, have you heard from Lancelot or the others?"

"Nothing, save for the message I received last night. He said they were a day from the border. If the weather's favorable, and they don't run into any trouble, they should reach Ealdor tomorrow or the day after, and be back a week after that," Arthur said.

"Then all we can do for now is wait."

* * *

The days passed slowly. For Arthur, there was little break in the winter's monotony. The now-daily council sessions went nowhere, each one turning into a series of endless arguments Arthur broke up before adjourning for the day. He spent the afternoons in study, but without Merlin to walk him through the minutiae within the law books, he had to rely on his own meager skills as a scholar. Granted, Geoffrey helped some, and Drusilla as well, but neither of them knew how to break things down the way Merlin could and make everything seem so reasonable. Arthur rubbed his eyes and turned the page.

"If it's such a difficult task, and you're not sure of success, then why keep doing this?" Gareth asked. He set a cup of spiced wine on the desk, well away from the parchments and books. The boy had perked up in the past few weeks. His eyes were brighter, he stood straight, and he was learning that- in Camelot at least- no one would beat him for speaking up. The haunted look had gone from his face.

"Because sometimes, there are things that need doing, no matter how hard it is to do it. This is one of those things, and I'm going to see it through. Just not today." He closed the book, ignoring the dust that puffed into the air. "There are days . . ." Arthur trailed off and grabbed the wine to sip it on his way to the window.

"There are days that what?"

"Days that I would prefer not to have a council, to be able to declare a thing and be done with it." He brushed the curtains aside and watched the snow fall. Only a few flakes danced here and there in the wind. "But wiser heads tell me that it's a terrible idea, that a King needs his council like a head needs a body."

"But why? In Amata, the king rules without a council and the land has been strong for a hundred years."

"Has it been strong? Or have the people just been afraid for so long they don't know any other way to live? That's not what I want for Camelot." He watched the people come in go in the square below- the merchants hawking their wares, the servants bustling about, a pair of boys- they looked like brothers- pelted each other with snowballs until one tackled the other into a drift. They emerged moments later, giggling like madmen. "This is how people should be. Happy, even in the winter."

Gareth appeared at his elbow and gazed out the window. "I've never seen a city like this, where everyone's," he paused, as though unsure of how to pronounce the word, "Happy."

"Well," Arthur chuckled and took a long sip of wine, "Not everyone's happy. There are more than a few men out there who are going to be more than a little angry if I get my way, but," he shrugged, "You can't make everyone happy. I'm looking for justice and peace. The happiness will follow." He hoped.

"Your father, King Uther. He wasn't like that. He was like my great-uncle. And like my father, to a degree. Why aren't you like them?" Gareth asked.

"Because I had good people at my side to point out what I was doing wrong and open my eyes to the way things could be. Even kings make mistakes. They just need someone around who's clever- and brave enough- to point them out." Luckily Arthur had a flock of them at his side- Gaius and Guinevere, Leon and Drusilla. The knights. And Merlin.

The past week had not been without progress. Since that last, terrifying vision, nothing else had come to plague the sorcerer's dreams. Just healing sleep that gave him the chance to finally recover. Yesterday morning, in fact, when Arthur had gone to see Merlin, he had found his friend curled up on the window seat in Gaius's chambers, enjoying the morning sun with Cabal at his side. Gwaine was there, too, reading aloud from some book of adventure tales. Every so often, the knight would stumble over a word and Merlin would sleepily correct him. In the warm sunlight, he looked a thousand times better. The shadows under his eyes were washed away, while the scars and sharp gauntness had softened. Take away the bandages, the splint on his arm, and the glassy stare, and Merlin looked like any other man enjoying a lazy morning. All the scene had wanted was for Lancelot and the others to return home with Hunith.

A message from them had arrived the previous afternoon, a brief note stating that they were within the borders of Camelot, and would return to the city with all due speed. No other information, just Lancelot's crabbed handwriting on a bit of parchment sent through the kingdom's fast net of couriers. If Arthur had figured the distances and travel times correctly, they would be back later that day or tomorrow. As miserable as he had been of late, Arthur could only imagine that his mother's arrival would brighten the sorcerer's spirits. The sooner the better.

Arthur downed the last of his wine and set the cup aside before opening the curtains further. "Have you learned your way around, yet, or are you still getting lost?" He motioned for Gareth come a little closer so he could see out better.

"I, um, I got lost in the market yesterday. Guinevere told me about a woman who makes pastries," the boy blushed, as though it were a bad thing to go looking for a pastry shop, "And I couldn't find it. Not at first. I just sort of wandered around for a while and suddenly there it was."

"Was it worth the trouble you went through to find it?" Arthur laughed.

"Yes," Gareth grinned sheepishly, "Though I was late in bringing the things she'd asked for, for Gaius and, um, for Merlin. But they didn't seem too upset." Of all the people in Camelot who could have made the boy nervous, it was Merlin whose every pained move nearly made the boy jump out of his skin. Given the sorcerer's state of health, Arthur didn't think that anyone could be frightened of him. But then, the boy had heard all kinds of horror stories about magic and its evils.

"I doubt they would. Gaius and Guinevere aren't prone to getting angry- unless you've done something really terrible. The same usually goes for Merlin, too, but right now," Arthur sighed. "Right now, he's still sick and hurt, and not himself. He's normally ridiculously cheerful. I hope he'll be like that again soon."

Gareth brushed a finger back and forth along the window pane, studiously avoiding the King's gaze. "I'd always been told that sorcerers were evil, hateful creatures. That they wanted to destroy the kingdoms and pull down the cities and castles and make us live like beasts in the forest. It was said they wanted to make us to worship their heathen gods and make blood sacrifices to them. I keep hearing it said that Merlin's a good man, but I saw what happened at Blackheath. He brought fire down on us. It killed so many . . ."

"I heard the same sorts of stories when I was a boy. For a long time, all I ever saw was the magic used against my family, and against Camelot. I thought all sorcery was evil, too. And then Merlin revealed his magic to me, and several of my knights to save our lives. I was so angry. For a moment, I thought I was going to kill him right there, but . . ." Arthur closed his eyes, remembering that night in the forest last spring, when everything had changed. "I looked in his eyes, and he was so scared. He was afraid of me. And yet all I could think about was how he had lied to me all those years," Arthur let his gaze wander out over the courtyard and across the rooftops. "I didn't think about the risks he took to stay by my side or how lonely he must have been. I exiled him the next morning, and spent the next few months regretting that decision.

"Gareth, Merlin has every reason to hate me, hate Camelot. If you knew the story of his life, you wouldn't be surprised if he went off to join Morgana. And yet, despite everything he's been through, he chooses to stay here." Arthur took the boy's shoulders and waited for Gareth to look up at him. "It's true, Merlin summoned that fire to the courtyard of Blackheath. And it's also true that he was once attacked here in Camelot, in the market, for being a sorcerer, and he did nothing to defend himself. When I asked him why, he said he didn't want to hurt the man. What men do in extreme circumstances- in war or when faced with death- is different from what they would do in the cold light of day when they have their wits about them. Remember that."

"I'll try," Gareth nodded and looked away, but Arthur could see the boy was pondering what he'd said. "Things are so different here. It's hard to know what to think sometimes."

Arthur smiled, "I understand. Things are different here from the way there were just a year ago. Sometimes I'm not even sure what to think about them all. But what I do know, is that a loyal heart is hard to come by, and when you find someone who shows you such loyalty despite every hardship, hold tight to that person. The world can give you no greater gift."

Gareth gave him a fleeting smile and returned his gaze to the courtyard. He wasn't sure how deeply his words had sunk in- the boy was only twelve, after all. But younger minds were more open to new ideas than older ones, and ideas, like seeds planted at the right time and well-nourished, would grow strong.

The boy squinted and put his nose to the window, quickly wiping away the fog from his breath. "Is that Lancelot?"

Arthur followed his gaze downward, spying the mud-spattered knight atop his even muddier horse. Elyan rode behind him, while Percival took up the rear, the reins of a heavily burdened pack horse looped loosely in one hand. They all looked ready to drop. Lancelot glanced up, catching the King's gaze. Sorrow pooled in the knight's dark eyes. Then Arthur noticed what was wrong.

There were only three riders. Not four.

* * *

"I don't see how you can call this progress. I can't even put my own shoes on." Merlin fidgeted in his seat at Gaius's work table as Guinevere finished tightening the buckles on his boots. New ones to replace the ones he'd lost as Blackheath, along with new trousers, shirts, and a coat. And a new scarf. Fine materials, all of it soft wools and linen. The boots were leather, as were the lightweight vambraces on his arms. Styled like the heavier versions the knights wore, his were meant to cover and protect the scarring on his arms and brace the broken bones while they finished healing. The one on his right covered from palm to elbow, while the left ended just above his wrist. High collars covered the scarring around his neck.

"Of course it's progress. Look at you. You're up and walking again, you sleep through the night, you're breathing more easily." She fussed with the lacings on the vambraces and tugged his sleeves back into place.

"Oh. Walking, sleeping through the night, and breathing properly. You make it sound like I'm five years old again." he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice and immediately regretted it.

"Merlin . . . "

He bowed his head and folded his weakened hands in his lap. "I'm sorry, Gwen. That wasn't fair. You've done so much for me lately. I don't have room to complain. It's just . . ." He took a deep breath to hold back his frustrated tears. "I just want to feel better."

"No one can blame you for that," her voice warmed like the morning sun, and he heard a smile come into it. She had been so patient with him these past weeks. There were times he felt he didn't deserve it. "Now give me your hand and stand up. I want to see the results of all my work. It's not often I get to show off anymore."

Her hands were warm against his as she helped him up, not letting go until he found his balance. "Well, how do I look?"

"I think you look dashing," she said, picking at the sleeves and straightening this bit or that and brushing what was probably imaginary dust off his shoulders. "The colors suit you. And no, they're not the colors Gwaine threatened you with," she laughed. "The coat's a lovely dark gray, the shirt's as close to the same shade of blue as your old one as I could find. There's also one in red, black, gray, and snowy white." He raised an eyebrow at that. True white was not an easy color to come by, nor was it cheap. "For special occasions. Arthur complained that you were looking all shabby before, and he didn't want you to keep looking like that at feasts and the like. And wipe that look of your face. I don't get to work with white very often, so don't begrudge me a bit of fun." She tugged at the scarf at his neck, adjusting the way it was wrapped "There. A bit of red, too, for Camelot. Now stand up straight. I think I measured everything right, but it's hard to tell with you slouching like that." She tilted his chin up with a finger. He did his best to do as she said.

"You made all that in a couple of weeks?" He rolled his shoulders, wincing when the movement pulled at the scars on his back. The clothes didn't feel like they were about to fall off, but they didn't feel quite right, either.

"Well, I didn't make all of it. Elaine helped, and so did Drusilla, a little. It's a bit loose, but you've gotten so thin. I think you'd blow away if the wind blew hard enough," Guinevere said.

"No danger of that. If it were up to Gaius, I wouldn't be going outside until summer." That wasn't entirely true. The physician had raised the possibility of summoning Kilgharrah to see if he could heal the scars, the broken bones, the lingering cough. The blindness. "But not until your lungs have improved," Gaius had said, "I know it's only a few miles, but it still worries me." As though thinking about it summoned it, a coughing fit hit him. He doubled over, pressing an arm to his side to support his aching ribs. Every breath he pulled in seemed to make the fit worse, the cool air like a blade scraping against his raw throat, bringing tears to his eyes. His knees gave out.

Guinevere guided him down, her arm around him as they sat back on the bench together. She rubbed slow circles on his back until he caught his breath.

"Are you all right?" she asked before pressing a cup into his shaking hands.

"I'll be fine," he said hoarsely, sipping at the water. He clutched the cup as tightly as his damaged hands would allow, taking comfort from the cup's solidity and altogether _hereness_. In the darkness of his new world, there were times when nothing seemed real, when the voices of those around him whispered like phantoms out of time, tricks the darkness played on him in those moments when it pressed so heavily. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, ignoring the twinge in his arm and the moisture caught in his eyelashes. The room seemed so quiet, then. The crackling fire snapped against his ears, and their breathing sounded like mismatched bellows in a forge. Outside, the wind picked up, howling around the tower like a forlorn _bean sídhe_. He shivered at the thought.

A knock at the door startled Guinevere. She gasped, then laughed at herself. "And I was just complaining that no one knocked," she said, "Come in!" The latch rattled and the door squeaked on its hinges. "Hello, Arthur," she said brightly, as much to tell Merlin who it was as to greet the King.

"Guinevere," he replied tightly. "I-" his voice caught. He cleared his throat, "I need to speak to Merlin. Alone."

"Of course." He felt her bright mood whither. There must have been something in Arthur's bearing that made the warmth of the room drain away. She laid a hand on his arm, "I'll be back later, then, all right?"

He nodded and turned toward Arthur's approaching footsteps. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asked when the door closed behind Guinevere.

"I- I have hard news." Arthur stopped in front of him and rested a hand on Merlin's good arm. "Lancelot and the others got back today, just a little while ago."

Dread gnawed at Merlin's stomach. _'I've seen this, or heard this before, haven't I?'._ "And my mother?" he whispered, his heartbeat loud in his ears. "If she'd come back with them, she'd be here now. What's happened, Arthur? Where is she?"

"They reached Ealdor a week ago, but when they got there, they- A band of men, the other villagers didn't know who they were- they attacked just a day or so before Lancelot and the others arrived. They stole some supplies, burned a barn, and-" Arthur tightened his grip. "They burned your mother's house, too, and she-" his voice broke, "Merlin, I'm so sorry . . . "

Merlin's breath left him. The dread in his gut vanished, replaced by a hollow numbness. All sound dulled, save for the howling of the wind, like a _bean sídhe's_ cry. ' _The bean sídhe is a harbinger of death . . .'_

"They killed her," he breathed, knowing the truth of it as he said the words, and where he had seen it all before, "I saw it. In my vision. Men with torches all around, and no way out." He saw the smoke again, and the fire flaring too brightly in his memory before the light dimmed, drowned out by smoke and terror. He saw the walls of his childhood home erupt in flames, consuming the little pots of herbs in the windows, the dried flowers on the walls, and the few pieces of furniture they had owned. Then smoke filled his sight, darkening the room before he could turn to see her . . . He shrank from the thought, but heard her scream anyway . . .

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice was far away. He heard a crash and staggered away from Arthur, falling to his knees as the haunting call faded in his mind, replaced by the anguished cry that tore from his own throat as memory piled upon memory- fire and smoke in Ealdor and Blackheath and the darkness that had become his life, melding with his days of torment in that black cell until he was no longer sure of where he was, or even who he was . . . In Blackheath, or Camelot or Ealdor? He couldn't tell and his mind, shuddering with flames, couldn't pierce the haze between memory, vision, and reality. He tried to draw breath, to cry out for help, but choked on the phantom scent of smoke.

Hands grabbed his arms, just like they had at Blackheath, when his tormentors had come- were still coming?- to ask him questions, hurt him again. But this time, he had his magic. He cried out, shoving the hands away before calling on his magic again, opening himself to the flow of it, begging it to take him away from here, take him anywhere, so long as it was away from the smoke and darkness and confusion. He felt a cold wind pull at him and let it take him, let it blow away the memory of fear and fire until nothing remained but darkness and silence.

* * *

The cold shocked him awake. He gasped, the icy air like a thousand tiny knives in his lungs. There was snow under his hands, and stone, and quiet all around. He pushed himself to his unsteady feet, arms stretched out to find anything to hold onto. His fingers brushed against a crumbling wall, and he collapsed against it.

"Arthur?" he called, his voice tremulous and small against the quiet. "Is anyone there?"

Far away, a crow squawked. It sounded like laughter.

Tears ran down his face, hot in the frigid air. "Arthur?" he tried again, but his voice was barely above a whisper. "Where am I?"

He took a hesitant step forward, then another, leaning against the wall as he went, his left hand questing ahead until he found a break in the wall. A doorway, perhaps. He moved forward, listening for any sound that might help him find his way, but there was only the crunch of ice and snow underfoot. _'I really am the idiot Arthur always accused me of being. What have I done? I don't even know where I am . . ._ ' "Help me," he whispered, though he had no idea who he was asking. Arthur, who wasn't there? The ghost of his mother? The gods?

Merlin took a steadying breath and let his Mind's Eye open, focusing on the world around him for the first time in weeks. He was in a temple, a familiar one- the ruined temple of Ériu, just a few miles from Camelot. 'Why did I come here?' He limped forward, pausing at the top of a few steps to get a clearer view of the place. The stones were dark in his altered vision, limned with the faint shimmer of dormant life- the plants and trees that were slowly reclaiming the place.

Beyond that, an inky mist hung over it all, obscuring the cloud-filled sky above.

A whisper like distant singing echoed around him. "Hello?" he called. The whispering strengthened, the voice familiar and yet just out of reach. But he knew the melody- his mother's cradle song. "Who's there? Please," he whispered, "Who are you?"

The song's sweetness turned, changing into a mocking thing that held nothing of his mother's gentleness. The mist thickened, swirling around him and melting from one shape to another, sometimes formless, then a great crow, or a woman with flowing black hair, her hand stretching toward him, fingers turning to claws and brushing his face before whisking away to repeat the dance again. The voice struck a high note, held it, pulled it beyond its breaking point until it was no more than a wild howl, a voice that held nothing human within it. Around the temple the trees stirred. Only the smallest branches trembled at first, caught in building breeze that grew and grew, as though a storm were coming in, faster than any earthly storm had a right to, rising in pitch and strength until all he could hear with the rush of the wind in the trees.

He clapped his hands over his ears and hunched his shoulders against the onslaught, closing his Mind's Eye as he did so, but his weakened defenses were nothing to the Morrigan. The inky darkness of Her presence swirled about him, fingers brushing against his face, his clothes, coalescing into something more than mist and less than human, but with strength enough to pull his hands away. Cold lips brushed against his forehead, tearing open his Mind's Eye whether he willed it or no. Once, he'd had the strength to defend against Her charms. He had pushed her away, channeled her attacks away into the earth, but not now. Like a gutted mouse under a cat's paw, all he could do was stare up into the Morrigan's visage, see the true face of the Morrigan, the goddess of panic and strife and war, her face beautiful, then full of madness and hate, then withering into dust like an ancient corpse, and around again. He could only watch as she pressed ghostly fingers along his face, her thumbs tracing over his closed eyes. _"Your eyes,_ " she whispered, her voice as quiet as the roaring wind was deafening, " _are windows into such a bright soul. Let me in."_

He couldn't help it.

He opened his eyes.

She hissed with delight. Some part of her, some clinging residue of that inky mist writhed away from Her and flowed into him, piercing him through with icy terror. He screamed, the sound stretching until it seemed all the air had gone from his lungs. His heart seized and he stumbled, his feet finding only empty air.

He remembered falling.

****  


* * *

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice echoed through the empty trees. He urged Canrith deeper into the forest when there was no response.

"We should light the torches, Sire. It's getting dark," Lancelot said, reaching for his hastily packed gear. He didn't need to add, 'And cold'. Arthur felt that well enough. The knight's torch flared, sending shadows dancing through the gloom. His horse snorted at the sudden flame.

They had headed into the forest less than an hour after Merlin's disappearance. Arthur and Lancelot went west, Guinevere and Elyan to the north, Percival and Gwaine to the east, while Leon and, of all people, Gareth, went south, to search as much of the surrounding countryside as they could before sunset, though Arthur was sure they would stay out through the night if need be. The chances of finding the sorcerer were slim. They all recognized that, but none of them were willing to let Merlin go without at least trying.

"Why did he go?"

"I don't know. He didn't take the news well. He collapsed, and it sounded like he was choking on something, and then," Arthur shook his head, "Then he was gone." He didn't add that, with magic, Merlin had flung him away like an unwanted toy, leaving him bruised and dazed as the sorcerer disappeared. "If I had to make a guess, I'd say that vision he had last week had something to do with all this. Maybe he saw what happened to his mother. Cabal, come on." He whistled to the hound, which had stopped, ears up. Cabal looked back and whined.

"Think he heard something?" Lancelot asked.

"Maybe?" Arthur reined Canrith in and listened, ears straining to hear anything beyond the normal forest sounds of trees creaking in the wind and the soft jingling of falling ice. Somewhere, far ahead of them, a crow cawed, then another. He shivered. "Do you hear crows?"

"Yes. They're all over the place, but," He frowned, "I don't know. I hear more of them now. Merlin never liked them, said they were the Goddess's spies. Should we go that way, see what's there?"

Arthur nodded and nudged Canrith into a quick trot. Cabal raced ahead, faster than Arthur dared push the horses to. The wind cut through Arthur's cloak, but it was the memory of Merlin's words that sent chills down his spine. His last vision that had been so haunting had been the sound of wind in the trees, had it not? The caws of a few crows grew until there must have been a vast flock of them above, a shrill cacophony rising above the wind. From the darkness ahead, an agonized scream cut through the sound of the crows. Arthur knew the voice too well. "Merlin!"

He kicked Canrith into a reckless gallop, trusting the horse's sense to guide them through the trees without pitching him headlong into the underbrush until they reached a small clearing. Dark stone walls loomed above him. He yanked on the reins and Canrith reared up, snorting his protest as Arthur half-swung, half-fell out of his saddle, barely noticing Lancelot behind him as he staggered toward the doorway. Cabal stood there, barking at whatever he saw, but to Arthur's eyes it was only dark, as though a black fog had settled upon the temple ruins. "Arthur!" Lancelot shoved a torch into his hands. They looked at each other, an unspoken decision sparking between them, and stepped through the door into the dark mist. Cabal followed.

They couldn't see or hear at first. The torches hardly pierced the mirk, and their flames flickered dangerously. They pressed forward. Something buffeted them, brushing against their faces and arms, but retreated when they waved the torches in wide arcs all around. Cabal's barking was loud, even against the wind, and soon enough it seemed that the murk retreated from them. The crows, too many to count thinned, flapping away with offended squawks. One snapped at Arthur's face, digging a bloody channel with its beak before he batted it out of the air with his torch. They swung at them, driving bird and mist away with fire and swords until they were out breath and the darkness only came from the night.

Arthur paused to catch his breath, checking the skies to ensure the crows were gone. His gaze snapped downward at Cabal's low, angry growl. At the bottom of a short set of steps lay Merlin. His eyes were closed and his face a deathly white, but even from here Arthur could see him trembling. A great crow, larger than any Arthur had seen before perched on the sorcerer's chest. It looked up at him, unconcerned, and it seemed there was some malevolent intelligence looking back at him. "Get away from him!" Arthur shouted. He leaped down the steps, brandishing the torch at the crow. It gave a last, desultory caw before it took to the wing and disappeared into the night.

Arthur flung his torch away. It hissed and went out in the snow. "Merlin?" He pressed two fingers to the sorcerer's neck, felt the thready pulse there and the too cold skin. He slid an arm under Merlin's shoulders and lifted him out of the snow. A trickle of blood ran out of Merlin's nose. More collected in the corners of his eyes before carving dark trails down his face.

"What happened?" Lancelot dropped to his knees across from Arthur. "Why's he bleeding like that?"

"I don't know. He's freezing, though. Help me," Arthur tugged at his cloak, pulling it off his shoulders and with the knight's help, he wrapped Merlin in its fur-trimmed length. "We need to get him to Gaius." He moved to gather Merlin up and stopped at his pain-filled cry.

Merlin's eyes fluttered open, and there were faint words on his lips. _"Forlætan, forlætan, forlætan . . ."_

"Arthur," Lancelot whispered, horrified, as he put a hand under Merlin's head, "Look at his eyes."

The summer blue was gone from Merlin's eyes, replaced by a solid, glossy black. Blood kept trickling down his face. "What the hell? Merlin? Merlin?" he tried to keep the growing alarm out of his voice.

Merlin's head rolled to the side as he drew in a labored breath and groaned. "Arthur?" he breathed, raising a trembling hand to find his King. "Arthur, please. I can't . . . She's too strong." He grimaced, teeth clenched, his body tensing as waves of pain washed over him. "Arthur . . . " Merlin cried out again, his hand twitching weakly.

"Who is too strong?" Arthur held him up higher off the ground to help the sorcerer breathe. "Merlin, I don't know what to do. Tell me what I need to do," his words were clipped, suppressing the fear-borne tremor. He grabbed the sorcerer's hand.

Merlin gasped. His hand tightened around Arthur's and a halcyon light appeared, faint at first, then stronger, flowing from the King's hand into Merlin's, breathing new strength into the fading sorcerer. His back arched, eyes flaring wide as sparks of golden light appeared in his eyes. Tiny at first, they grew, swirling and spreading through the inky darkness until, at last, the gold overwhelmed the black. Faint light shone under Merlin's skin, silvery motes dancing across his face and hands like midsummer fireflies. The gold in his eyes faded away, leaving behind the familiar blue, focusing for a too-brief moment on the stars until the silvery motes flickered and vanished. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and Merlin went limp, his hand falling away from Arthur's. Dizziness washed over the King.

"Arthur?" Lancelot's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"I'm all right." He shook his head and blinked to clear his swimming vision. A thick, yet insubstantial liquid pooled in Merlin's eyes, rolling down his face like quicksilver before fading away. His breathing remained shallow until he coughed, sending a fine spray of blood into Arthur's face. He winced. "Merlin? Can you hear me?" The sorcerer's eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice, but he didn't answer. "We need to get him back to Gaius. Go get the horses and bring them down here. I'll take him back up the steps. We can get him on horseback from here."

"Right away," Lancelot said, squeezing Merlin's shoulder before running up the steps to find the horses.

"No."

Arthur looked back down at Merlin. "What? Merlin, you're hurt. You just coughed up blood. Of course we have to get you back to Camelot. You might die . . ."

Merlin sighed and reached up, catching his fingers in Arthur's coat. "I am dying. She was tearing me apart . . . from the inside." He grimaced and stifled a cough. "Gaius can't fix that. He can't. Arthur, please. Just . . . just let it go. This is what I've been seeing. In my visions." He waved vaguely toward the treetops. "The wind in the trees. It's this. My own death." Merlin's hand fell to his side and, inexplicably, he laughed. It made him cough and he couldn't stop it this time, half-choking on the blood it brought up until he managed to swallow it back. "My visions . . . they've never been wrong. Just let me go. I'm so- I'm so tired."

"No. Merlin, we're not playing at this. If Gaius can't heal you, there must be someone who can. Tell me who it is, and we'll go. Right now. You can't give up just because it's hard. If I've learned anything from you, it's that much." Merlin closed his eyes and didn't answer. Arthur looked up at the silent stars and wiped the wetness from his eyes, smearing blood across his face. "You listen to me now," he growled, "I know your life has been one small hell after another, and I know there have been times when I added to that, but you have to give me another chance to make it right. Dammit . . . Merlin, I made promises. I swore an oath that you would be all right."

"Breaking it . . . " Merlin swallowed and started over, "Breaking it wouldn't hurt you.

"I've never broken an oath in my life, and I don't intend to start now. So tell me. Who can heal you? I know someone's out there. Gaius told me there was. Who is it?" Arthur resisted the urge to shake sense into his friend. "Merlin, tell me. Please. I need you to live."

"Why?" Merlin's voice was soft as a summer breeze. His head lolled against Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur sighed, hitting a wall of truth he couldn't push away from anymore. He licked his lips and tasted blood on them, salty and bitter. "Because, you idiot. You're the only friend I've got. I couldn't bear to lose you." He tightened the cloak around the shivering sorcerer. "Now please. Tell me how I can save you."

Merlin was silent for a time, his breathing soft and shallow. Then, decision made, he sighed. His nod was a barely discernible motion against Arthur's shoulder. "The dragon. He's saved me before." He coughed again, his indrawn breath a scraping rasp. "Can't bring him here . . . 's too small. Have to go to the meadow where- where you faced him before. Can call him there. . . It's not far."

"Thank you." He suppressed a giddy laugh and looked toward the doorway. "Lancelot! Hurry!"

"I'm here!" Lancelot led the horses into the ruined sanctuary through a break in the wall.

Arthur nodded and adjusted the cloak around his friend. "I need to move you now, Merlin, to get you on the horse so we can go. I know it's going to hurt, but we have to. All right?" As carefully as he could, Arthur slid an arm under the sorcerer's knees gathering him gingerly, as if he were made of glass, though it didn't stop the whimpers of pain. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he whispered as he trudged up the steps, knowing the worst was to come. They still had to get him on the horse, and then to the clearing.

A well-trained horse, Canrith stood still at Lancelot's command, his ears flicking back at the two men as they sat Merlin across the charger's withers in front of Arthur. He cried out once, when they lifted him onto the saddle, then fell eerily silent. Both men held their breaths as Arthur felt for a pulse and sighed in relief when he found one, quick and faint as it was. Lancelot hastily draped a cloak around the King's shoulders, and they were off.

Under the light of a waxing moon they went, pushing the horses as fast as they dared, the hoofbeats muffled by the soft earth and snow as Arthur led them through the trees.

The horses' harsh breath and the jingle of tack was the loudest sound, save for Merlin's coughing and a long moan from the sorcerer after Canrith was forced to jump a fallen log. Cabal kept pace with them, his skittering steps a faint counterpoint to the horses' heavier strides. Arthur wanted to look down at Merlin, check on the failing sorcerer and make sure he still lived, but he didn't dare lest he lead them headlong into a tree or deadfall.

The journey to the clearing was short in distance- perhaps two miles- but terribly long in the riders' minds. Arthur pulled Canrith to a halt at the edge of the meadow.

"Merlin? We're here. Can you hear me? Merlin?" He finally got an answer, a faint sound from the sorcerer's throat; his eyelids fluttered. Part of the horse's mane and neck were spattered with blood.

"Why are we here? Why didn't we go back to Camelot?" Lancelot's eyes were wide as he helped Arthur ease Merlin off the saddle.

"He's torn up inside," Arthur said, "I don't know how, and right now I don't care. But Gaius can't help him. Here. Watch his head." Their ungraceful efforts failed to rouse Merlin.

"And bringing him here will? How?" Lancelot spread a blanket over the snowy ground for the King and the sorcerer. Arthur settled down with Merlin, still bracing the younger man against himself.

"The dragon. Merlin said the dragon could heal him. Said he'd done it before." Arthur ignored Lancelot's shocked look and turned back to Merlin. The sorcerer was a dead weight in his arms, bone white and clammy. The only signs that he lived were the faint, stuttering breaths he took. "Merlin," Arthur patted him on the cheek, "Wake up. Come on, Lazy Daisy, rise and shine. Come on, Merlin. Open your eyes. Merlin!" He was just shy of shouting the last.

"Wha. . .?" He stirred at last, his eyes opening and staring blankly past the King. "What is it?"

"We're here, at the clearing where you told me bring you. Now you need to summon the dragon." Arthur used the edge of the cloak to clean some of the blood from Merlin's face. The rest had dried and resisted his efforts.

"You're not s'posed t' know 'bout the dragon," Merlin slurred.

Arthur chuckled. "Too bad. I already know. You told me all about it, remember? Now call him, Merlin. Bring him here so he can heal you."

"'s death to use magic. . ." Merlin coughed again, weakly. The blood staining his mouth was crimson in the moonlight.

"No, Merlin, it's not. Not anymore. I stopped all that, remember? Now please, Merlin. Summon the dragon. Please," he begged, swiping at the tears in his eyes. "You've survived so much. I can't lose you now, not when we're so close. Please, Merlin. For my sake if not your own, summon the dragon."

"'right," Merlin whispered, turning his unseeing eyes on the sky above. He tried to draw a deep breath, coughed, and tried again, finally turning breath into voice with a string of harsh words in the tongue Arthur had heard him scream out on the pyre at Blackheath. Now they were quiet, hardly above a whisper. When he was done, Merlin sighed and sank against Arthur, boneless and silent.

"Merlin?" Arthur's heart lodged in his throat until he felt the faintest of beats in Merlin's throat. "He's running out of time. That beast had best get here soon."

"I thought the dragon was dead," Lancelot said, "Everyone thinks the dragon is dead, Arthur. How is it alive?"

"It's a long story," Arthur said as he pulled his gaze away from the empty sky, "And Merlin can tell you the whole thing when he's recovered."

"Do you think this . . . whatever this all is- do you really think it's going work?"

"It has to. It's the only thing left. He won't make it if we go anywhere else," Arthur replied, refusing to give voice to the notion that Merlin had minutes at most. He held Merlin tighter, hoping his warmth would aid the sorcerer, yet knowing that that it was the blood leaking from his nose and eyes and filling his lungs that would kill Merlin in the end. _'After all that's happened, after all he's survived, to lose him now . . ._ ' "Where are you?" he asked the air.

"Do you hear that?" Lancelot looked up, squinting against the cold. "It's like wind, or . . " he trailed off, scanning the sky. "There!" he pointed toward the northwest, "A shadow, maybe, against the stars."

"It's the dragon. I know that sound. We heard it often enough when it attacked Camelot." Arthur resisted the urge to draw his sword. They had come here for healing, not fighting.

"What happens if he sees us before Merlin?"

"Not afraid, are you, Lancelot? That's not something I hear out of you very often," Arthur said. But he pushed the hood of the cloak away from Merlin's face anyway.

The sound of beating wings grew louder, and Arthur saw the glint of moonlight off vast wings. The first rush of air rustled through the treetops like a summer breeze, and a spark of hope ignited in Arthur's heart. _'Wind in the trees . . .'_ Merlin saw it as a sign of his death. Perhaps it will mean his salvation instead.'

The wind turned warm around them, melting snow and ice, and battering them with a spray like rain. Arthur curled himself over Merlin to protect the sorcerer from the barrage of of water and bits of debris the dragon blew up into the air as it landed. He expected to hear a noise like thunder, but the beast was all cat's grace and lightness when it touched ground. Longer than half a dozen horses placed nose to tail, it stepped gingerly toward them. The great wings folded along its back. It lowered its head toward them, yellow eyes full of curiosity as it regarded the two of them.

"Well," it said, its voice rumbling like a landslide, "We meet again, young Pendragon, albeit, under different circumstances. I'm glad to see you have not greeted me with spears and crossbows this time." Arthur blinked. All the words had run out of his head. He knew the beast could speak, but hadn't expected a sense of humor. If that reptilian face could smile, it would be. "Tell me, then. What of Merlin? I heard his call, but it sounded so very weak. Come now. I hear tell you are not as great a fool as your father was. Merlin has even told me you have some wit about you. I assume you have a voice with which to speak?" The dragon speared each of them with its yellow gaze.

 _'Some wit?'_ An indignant part of Arthur's mind rose up and loosed his tongue. "He's here. He's dying. He summoned you so you could heal him."

"What's this? A Pendragon asking the aid of a creature of magic?" It laughed, "Well, it is a new world after all."

The delay was like to drive him mad. "Please! He's dying. He has no time for this."

"Very well," it rumbled, "Stand aside."

Reluctantly, Arthur lay Merlin down on the blanket, resting a hand on his brow to reassure himself that the sorcerer yet lived. He did, though the rise and fall of his chest was so slight, and he was so cold. Arthur stood and stepped back, gesturing for Lancelot to do the same.

He flinched at the dragon's intake of breath. The last time he'd heard that noise, a blast of fire had killed half a dozen of his knights in a moment, but it breathed out there were no flames, just a shimmering, as when the heat of a lit forge makes the air waver above it. The moment stretched on, as though the dragon would never run out of breath, then it stopped. Arthur watched, waited. At last, Merlin's lips parted, his chest rising in a deep breath. The lines of pain left his face. Save for the blood on his face, he looked like he was merely asleep.

"Oh, young warlock. What trials you have faced." The dragon rested its snout against Merlin's chest, its eyes closed, reminding Arthur of nothing so much as a big cat curled up for a nap with its owner.

"Will he live?" Arthur finally dared to ask.

The yellow eyes opened, their slit pupils expanding in the darkness. "Yes, young Pendragon. He will live. Weak as he is, the Goddess could not turn him. When She could not do that, She sought to destroy him. But She could not do even that, in the end."

"Turn him? What do you mean by that?"

"Think of the power Merlin has- he is a Dragonlord, a son of the starry skies, a child of the earth, and heir to the Hollow Hills. His power is far greater than anything the witch- your sister- could ever hope to achieve. Think of what destruction could be wrought if the Triple Goddess could twist his mind and turn him into Her servant? But have no fear, young Pendragon. Even pushed to the limits of his endurance, his love for you kept Her at bay." The dragon settled down, curling its tail around its front legs, and resting quietly at Merlin's side.

"I- Thank you," Arthur said. "I admit, you're not like what I expected. Not after . . ."

"After I tried to burn your city down?" The dragon chuckled. It was an unnerving sound.

"Though it is true. A dragon takes on many qualities of the Dragonlord who commands him. Balinor was an angry man- and rightfully so. His life was torn apart, his kind destroyed almost to a one, and he was separated from the woman he loved because of your father's hatred. He wanted vengeance, and so did I. How fortunate for you, that Merlin was raised by his mother and not his father. His power is matched only by his mercy and his desire for peace. Where Balinor desired retribution, Merlin wants only freedom. Remember that."

Arthur nodded wordlessly, his eyes on Merlin. The sorcerer was beginning to stir, his eyelids fluttering and finally opening, the summer blue irises as deep as ever but still unfocused. He reached a shaking hand up, resting it against the dragon's snout.

"Kilgharrah?" his voice was weak. "You're here?"

"Yes, young warlock," the dragon's voice filled with affection, "I am here. Where else would I be?"

"I don't- I'm not-" he cleared his throat and struggled to sit up. Arthur knelt to help, a hand at Merlin's back. "I can't see you. I still can't see."

"I had feared that," the dragon sighed, "It is an effect of the _Deiradh Chroí._ The collar was a tool of the Triple Goddess, infused with Her magic. It is that which causes your blindness- a magic that lingers like an infection. One that even I cannot heal."

Merlin bowed his head. "But why?"

"I am powerful, Merlin, but the Goddess is even moreso. I can contain Her poison within you, so that it spreads no further, but I cannot destroy it."

"So I'm blinded forever?" despair edged the sorcerer's words.

"Perhaps not. You have great power of your own. In time, you may rid yourself of this infection," the dragon said.

"How?"

"By remaining as you have always been, young warlock- a light in the darkness. At any rate, you are, at least, fortunate the witch did not truly realize what she had, and what the _Deiradh Chroí_ could have done to you."

"This is a fortunate outcome?" Arthur scowled.

"Yes," the dragon leveled a glare at him. Arthur tried not to be cowed by it. "If Morgana had realized the true power of the Deiradh Chroí, Merlin, she would not have given you to the Sarrum. She would have taken you far away and let the collar do its work. Given enough time, it would have poisoned your mind completely, plunging you into a despair so deep you would have begged serve Her, if only to see the pain halved. So yes," Kilgharrah said, "Despite the torment you have endured, this is the better outcome. Your wounds will heal, the scars will fade, and in time, your eyesight may return. But your mind is wholly your own. Your heart is weary, but intact."

"And my mother is dead. Because Morgana wanted to hurt me." Merlin pressed a hand to his eyes and swallowed hard. He leaned forward, pulling away from Arthur to rest against the dragon.

Arthur let him go. Perhaps Kilgharrah knew better the sort of grief Merlin suffered. It was true that his own father had died by violence, but Uther had been a tyrant. Hunith had been innocent. Just then, Arthur felt like he was intruding. Quietly as he could, he moved away from them, trudging over to where Lancelot stood keeping the horses quiet.

"If there's been a time before this where I've felt so completely out of my depth, I don't know what it is," Lancelot said. "Do you think he's going to be all right? Will he ever recover?"

"I don't know," Arthur pulled his gaze away from the red-cloaked figure in the field, "I hope so. Honestly, Lancelot, there are times I wonder what I'd do without him. This last month has been hard enough." He idly scratched Canrith's nose. "He wanted to die. Back in the temple, he didn't want to tell me what to do, who could save him. 'Just let me go', he said. I couldn't-" His voice came near to breaking. "I haven't always been fair to him. God knows this last year hasn't been easy for anyone, for him most of all. I asked him to give me a second chance. It was barely enough." Canrith nudged Arthur's chest, closing his eyes in pleasure as Arthur moved his hand down the horse's neck.

"This world has taken so much from him," Lancelot said softly, "It seems like, one of these days, it should give something back to him."

Arthur couldn't find the right words, so he nodded in agreement and looked back toward the sorcerer and the dragon. They hadn't moved and neither spoke aloud, but Arthur had sense that a great deal was being said between them silently. For a moment he was jealous. What was it like, he wondered, to be able to speak with another beyond words and understand another so completely as those two seemed to do? "Have you ever wondered what it must be like to see through his eyes?"

"All the time," Lancelot said, "Especially the days he came back from the forest all aglow, or the nights he'd spend hours staring up at the stars. He always seemed so happy then."

"And he will be again. I'll make sure of it." Arthur didn't miss Lancelot's smile. "What are they doing?" He nodded toward Merlin and the dragon, the latter of whom was shifting, rising, and pulling Merlin to his feet.

The sorcerer turned, one hand on the dragon's neck. His head tilted as he listened, his other hand clutching at the cloak around his shoulders. "Arthur?" he called.

He crossed the distance to the sorcerer and took his arm. "I'm here. What is it?"

"It is time for me to leave," the dragon answered, its breath a hot wind against Arthur's face. "I have healed your wounds, young warlock, but you must rest." Merlin nodded and moved away from Kilgharrah, but only managed a few steps before his knees began to buckle. Arthur caught him before he fell. His slight weight was hardly a burden. "Then. Until the next time, Merlin. Take care of yourself. You have come too close to death in the past weeks for my taste. It would be an empty world without you in it."

A faint smile tugged at Merlin's lips. "Until then." The dragon spread it wings and leaped up, taking flight with a few powerful beats, sending snow and twigs flying again. Arthur shielded Merlin from the bulk of it until the dragon disappeared and the air fell still again.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"How far are we going?"

"All the way to the horses, which, uh, Lancelot is bringing to us. Apparently he thinks you still get to be lazy," Arthur smirked, letting affection color his voice so the sorcerer would know it wasn't a reproach- just a return to their old banter. Merlin's smile widened a bit, but he wilted against the King, already half-asleep at Lancelot brought the horses up.

"No, you don't get to sleep yet. At least wait until you're on the horse." He shook Merlin's arm until his heavy eyes stayed open.

With a little effort and a bit of 'help' from the exhausted sorcerer, they had him on the horse behind Arthur where he was in and out of sleep as they rode back. Their pace was far slower this time, a gentle walk through the trees instead of the desperate race of earlier. Neither knight nor King spoke, just enjoyed the quiet of the night and the moonlight in a forest haunted by owls and night time creatures. Cabal enjoyed it more than they did, romping through the snow drifts and scaring up the occasional bird to chase and bark at before it escaped into higher branches.

"Arthur?" Merlin's voice was hardly above a whisper at Arthur's back where he was cocooned in the King's heavy cloak.

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry," Merlin breathed.

"What for?"

"For earlier. And for dragging you out here. I don't know why I did that. Don't know what I was thinking . . ."

"You weren't thinking. I know the feeling," Arthur chuckled, "Don't worry about it, Merlin. It's not as though I brought you any good news today. God knows I wasn't thinking well the night my father died. Besides. Fate, or whatever you want to call it, has be uncommonly cruel to you these past weeks. I think you've earned the right to complain a little." Arthur smiled at Merlin's weak attempt at a laugh. It was a good sound. "Besides. If a night ride through the forest is the worst thing I have to face the rest of the winter, then I have nothing to complain about."

"But-"

Arthur cut him off. "Merlin, nothing bad came of this little adventure. We're all fine. If something bad comes of it, well, you told me yourself once- leave tomorrow's worries for tomorrow." He couldn't see Merlin's smile, but somehow, he sensed it as easily as he sensed the sorcerer was quickly falling asleep again. "We're going home now. Everything's going to be fine."

 

* * *

 

A clatter woke Arthur. He opened bleary eyes to a dim room lit only by a few candles. There was a shadow of movement near a candelabra. "What are you doing?" he mumbled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, expecting to hear one of George's obsequious comments or a muttered apology from Gareth for waking him.

"I always light your candles on Imbolc morning." It was Merlin.

Arthur sat up, straightening his bed clothes as he gave the sorcerer a long look. "You don't have to do that. In fact, George is overly proud of his candle lighting abilities."

Merlin smiled faintly and tipped his lit candle to another. Arthur thought he saw a golden glint in the sorcerer's eyes. "It's a tradition. Why should I stop now?"

"I don't know. I thought the fire still . . . " He shook his head, unsure of how to phrase it. "Anyway. It's only Imbolc, and you don't have to light the candles if you don't want to." He scrubbed a hand through his unruly hair and slipped out of bed, padding toward the screen where someone, probably George, had hung up clothes for him. At Merlin's prolonged silence, he peered around the screen. The sorcerer stood still as night, his mien turned melancholy. "Merlin?"

"It's not 'just Imbolc', Arthur. Though, being a castle-born king," he almost chuckled at that, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"What wouldn't I understand?" he raised an eyebrow.

"In Ealdor, we-" Merlin's voice broke. He took a long breath before going on, "Winter is harsh in the mountains. During the years when the harvest was bad we'd often go hungry, no matter how well we rationed our stores. And sometimes, there were those who didn't survive, whether it was from sickness or hunger . . . But every year around this time, the ewes would start to give milk again, then the cattle. And when that happened we knew that if we made it to Imbolc, we'd make it until spring." His smile turned sweeter, though still tinged with sadness. "On Imbolc morning, my mother and I- we would light the candles together, to celebrate the return of the light." Merlin paused then, one candle in hand, several more already lit, framing his face with soft light against the darkness. His unseeing eyes glistened. He turned his head away.

"You're right." Arthur looked down at the fine linen shirt in his hands and the chamber around him, warmed as it was by the fireplace, and of the servants who had seen to his every need all through his life. "I don't understand." Then he smiled, remembering what Merlin had said earlier- that he lit Arthur's candles every Imbolc morning. No doubt that there were religious overtones that once had been forbidden. Knowing Merlin, he had quietly performed them anyway. "Any other subversive things you've been doing all this time that I should know about?"

"Probably. I will admit that I've been using magic to find my way around the castle. It's hard, just using my ears. Cabal helps. But sometimes," Merlin's smile turned to a grimace. He turned away to light the last candle and sighed, putting his free hand to his brow. "Sometimes it feels like I'm being buried alive. It'd be easier if-" He shook his head, unable to go on. But Arthur knew how it would have ended: ' _If I could use magic.'_

 

"It won't always be like this," he said softly.

Merlin just nodded, his head tilted, listening, an expression Arthur had become familiar with in the past few days, a mark of just how much these last weeks had changed the sorcerer. No longer the jittery, grinning young man Arthur had come to know, Merlin had found an inner stillness- a quiet that, given half a chance might turn to peace. Part of it, he knew, was the change of walking through a darkened world, but Arthur had a feeling that even if Merlin's sight returned tomorrow, that quiet- one might dare call it nobility- would remain even if it were tinged with grief.

Arthur watched him for a moment, noting the dragon sigil of Camelot picked out in silvery thread on the sleeve of Merlin's coat. He wore a black shirt- the color of mourning- and Arthur wondered if the sorcerer had picked it on purpose or if it had been mere chance. "Merlin?" He turned his head toward the King, the line of his gaze locking onto Arthur's for an eerie moment before slipping away again. "Truthfully. How are you?"

"Truthfully?" A pained smile played about his lips, then disappeared. He took a long breath. "I've been better . . . And I've been worse. But then, it is Imbolc, and here I am." Perhaps not whole in body or spirit, but alive. Well enough to make it through the remnants of winter.

"Here we both are." Arthur rested a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "I don't know if anyone's told you yet, but Lancelot and the others were able to retrieve your mother's bones. I had thought-" Arthur licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. "That is, if you remember where your father is buried . . . "

"I remember. I marked it, though you wouldn't recognize it as such. He's there, as unmarked in death as he was in life. At least by Camelot's laws." Merlin turned his face away, shifting slightly away from Arthur's touch.

Arthur winced, but went on, "I had thought that, when spring comes and the weather warms, we might ride out there. Give your mother a proper funeral and lay her to rest next to your father. I thought she deserved that much. More than that, but it's what I have to give her."

Tears sprang to Merlin's eyes, bright in the candlelight. He bit his lip and turned away, raising a hand to his face. Arthur stepped back a pace. A few shaking breaths later, Merlin nodded. "Thank you," he whispered.

Arthur opened his mouth, some pithy comment on his tongue. "You're welcome," he said instead, watching the rise and fall of Merlin's shoulders even out as he gained control of his tears. The hand over his eyes stretched out, his thumb and middle finger pressed against his temples as suppressed emotion gave way to one of the headaches that plagued him now and then. "Here," Arthur said, taking Merlin's elbow and guiding him to a chair at the table. "Sit down before you fall down." He grabbed an ewer and poured a cup of water, which he slid in front of the sorcerer.

"This is a switch," Merlin said softly, his hands wrapping around the cup.

"Yes. Well," Arthur mumbled, "A king is supposed to serve his people."

"Usually not quite so literally."

"Don't get used to it." He grinned suddenly, an idea flashing into his mind. Gaius had told him not so long ago, that part of what had Merlin so adrift was a feeling of uselessness. While there was little else that he could do to bring back what the sorcerer had lost, he could at least make Merlin feel needed again. Arthur crossed to his desk where a stack of forlorn books lay. He grabbed them and set them on the table hard enough to make the dust fly.

Merlin's nostrils flared at the scent. One thin hand, still wrapped in the leather brace, traced the cover of the topmost book. His jaw tightened. "You know I can't read anymore."

"But I can. And given that the language of law books is as twisted as it ever was . . . " Arthur trailed off, unwilling to voice the notion that sometimes, even a King needed help.

"And you want me to explain it to you?" Merlin's expression softened. A faint light started to shine in his eyes.

"Well. Yes. Unless you can think of anything better to do until Spring gets here?" Arthur asked archly as he pulled out his own chair.

A slow smile spread across Merlin's face. Tinged with sadness, yes, but there was sweetness, too, and a hint of the sorcerer's nearly-forgotten happiness. "I suppose not." He tilted his head, puppy-dog like, "Does this mean you're finally admitting that I'm more intelligent than you are?"

Arthur chuckled. "Not a chance," he said as he reached for the first book, flipping to the last page he'd marked. He glanced up at Merlin, noting how he leaned forward in anticipation, the lines of pain faded, the new spark of life in his glassy eyes. He smiled. ' _I didn't break my word. There's still a long road ahead, but I didn't break my word. Everything is going to be fine.'_

 


End file.
